Alan Warburton Leads Trumps
“This is getting more interesting than ever,” exclaimed Bannister. “Lo
and behold!—the man I was about to seek—seeks me. I wonder why. Send
him up, Falcon.”
“Very good, Inspector.”
Both men were quick to see that Alan Warburton looked very much the
worse for wear. He was unshaven, his hair anything but tidy, and his
clothes unbrushed—so completely unbrushed and creased that they gave
the impression of having been slept in. And very recently at that. His
collar by no stretch of imagination could be described as clean and
his tie had been tied with glaring and almost exaggerated
carelessness. He himself was in no different condition from the
clothes in which he stood. His not too-clean hands were shaking, and
in his eyes glittered something that looked exceedingly like a
dangerous malevolence. Decidedly Mr. Warburton was looking anything
but his best. Anthony had seen a suggestion of the same look before in
the eyes of the mentally unbalanced and knew that it bordered upon a
state of fanaticism. He was quite prepared therefore to hear startling
news. He was not disappointed. He has been heard moreover, more than
once afterwards to remark, when this astounding case has been the
subject of discussion, that this coming of Warburton enabled him to
disentangle the threads perhaps more than any other feature of the
affair. Coincidental with Warburton’s voluntary entrance into the cast
he avers that he began to see a glimmer of light stabbing through the
darkness of doubt. He was able to reconcile certain suspicions with
actual facts. Alan Warburton came to grips immediately. His
self-control seemed to have entirely gone and he appeared mastered and
dominated by a kind of raw desperation.
“Chief-Inspector Bannister?” he exclaimed abruptly.
“My name,” said Bannister laconically.
“I understand you’re in charge of the Seabourne murder case—my name is
Alan Warburton.”
The Inspector watched him very carefully through his glasses. “Yes?”
he murmured encouragingly. “What can I do for you?”
“I’ve got information for you,” went on Warburton, fiercely;
“information that only I can give, information that lets daylight into
the case. I know the murderer and I’ll give you his name and by Heaven
may I be there when the swine swings.” He brought his fist down on to
the centre of the table with a resounding crash.
“Steady, Mr. Warburton, steady. Collect yourself if you possibly can.
Tell your story intelligently.”
Warburton turned and eyed him with a dull smouldering glare. “What?”
he demanded truculently; “what’s that you said? Intelligently? You’ll
find my little recitation intelligent enough—too intelligent—God
knows.” He buried his face in his hands to conceal the depth of his
emotion. When he lifted it he was considerably calmer, but the
dangerous light still remained fitfully flickering in his eyes.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I ask your indulgence. I’m on edge. My nerves
are frayed to threads. I’ve been through red, blazing Hell these last
few days. You see, I loved Sheila Delaney. I am the nephew of Sir
Felix Warburton—another unlucky beggar”—he spoke with mordant
bitterness—“and you can imagine I used to be in a good deal better
circumstances than I am now. I’ve known Sheila since we were boy and
girl together. We grew up side by side. Now she’s been murdered,” he
burst out again. “And murdered by a lascivious blackguard”—he went on
heedless of Bannister’s restraining hand—“and I’ll give the swine a
name—Alexis—Crown Prince of Clorania—now you know,” he declared
defiantly. Anthony saw Bannister start with astonishment.
“What?” he shouted. Then his professional training asserted itself and
he began to reason calmly with the extraordinary situation. “Explain
yourself, Mr. Warburton. It’s one thing to bring an accusation—it’s
another thing justifying it.”
Warburton waved the challenge away almost imperiously—certainly
disdainfully. He seemed very sure of himself and continued unperturbed
and untroubled by Bannister’s curt demand. “I can justify myself all
right—don’t you fret yourself. I shouldn’t be chatting here with you,
Inspector Bannister, if I couldn’t do that. Ask Mr. Royal Highness
Alexis what he was doing in Seabourne when Sheila went down there this
last time. He’s been pestering her for months now—the skunk—ever since
he met her in the February of last year. I know that and I can prove
it.”
It was here that Mr. Bathurst took a hand. The date was his positive
attraction. “The February of last year? Mr. Warburton—you aren’t quite
so well placed for information as we are. I’ll explain what I mean a
little later. But coming back to what you just said—where did Miss
Delaney meet the gentleman you mentioned? I should be interested to
know that.”
“At the Westhampton Hunt Ball.” Warburton shot the answer back in a
tone that brooked no denial. “I can prove it, too, as I said. I was
there myself and saw him.”
Anthony saw from the corner of his eye that Bannister was knitting his
brows in perplexity. But only momentarily.
“Suppose you tell us the whole story, Mr. Warburton?” suggested the
Inspector persuasively. “Begin at the beginning and marshal your facts
in proper sequence so that we may properly understand it. We can then
test its strength better.”
Warburton flung another defiant glance in Bannister’s direction. “Test
its strength?” he echoed mockingly. “It’s true and you can’t get
anything stronger than Truth. Order me a drink, will you,
Inspector—it’s confoundedly dry work talking? My mouth’s as dry as a
lime-kiln.”
Bannister frowned and touched the bell—without making any reply.
Refreshed—Warburton began at the beginning as he had been directed and
Anthony settled himself down to hear something that held a double
interest for him. Although he was still agent for the Crown Prince he
began to wonder where that gentleman actually stood and it seemed to
him that Warburton’s story must throw light on the question. For he
was beginning to harbour doubts about Alexis.
“There’s not much to tell,” said Alan Warburton moodily. “In the
February of last year I was a guest at the Annual Hunt Ball at
Westhampton. It’s quite a big thing in its way. I accompanied Sheila
Delaney.”
“One moment,” broke in Bannister; “was there any understanding at that
time between you and the lady?”
“Not in so many words—but I was very confident that there soon would
be and so there would have been if——”
“Go on,” motioned Bannister.
“During the evening, Major Carruthers, who was Chief Constable then
and a sort of guardian always of Sheila, introduced her to a man whom
I had never seen before. I suspected him to be the Crown Prince. To
cut the story short, Sheila fell for him badly, and from that moment I
began to slump very badly as an ice-cutter. In fact I disappeared
completely from Sheila’s map. She told me some weeks afterwards that
the man was Alexis, Crown Prince of Clorania. I implored her to give
the man up. Shewed her how ridiculous it was. I told her she was
playing with fire—that she was just providing temporary amusement for
him. But she was like the rest of her sex. She wouldn’t listen to me.
There are none so deaf as those that won’t hear! By God, I was right!
She went to Seabourne to meet that swine and he murdered her. She’d
served his purpose,” he declared vindictively. “But he’s not going to
get away with it.”
Bannister had some interrogating to do. “You assert that Miss Delaney
informed you that her lover was the Crown Prince of Clorania. You have
no doubt on the point?”
“She told me what I’ve just told you. I couldn’t invent the name,
could I?” he demanded churlishly.
“Did you attempt to verify her statement in any way? It would have
been quite simple to do so, surely—up to a point?”
“I ascertained that it was perfectly true that the Crown Prince had
attended the Ball that night—if that’s what you mean? I was quite
satisfied, more than satisfied.”
“Have you ever seen a photograph of the Crown Prince?”
“Never—I’m not interested enough.”
“You say that you saw him introduced to Miss Delaney by Major
Carruthers?”
“I did!”
“Could you recognise him again if you saw him?”
“I couldn’t swear to that. I might if I saw him in evening-dress. But
he was some distance down the ballroom when the introduction took
place and at other times I only saw his back—I tell you I wasn’t
interested in the man—curse him!”
Mr. Bathurst leant across the table. “I should like to ask you
something, Mr. Warburton.”
“What’s that?” replied Warburton discourteously.
Anthony ignored the discourtesy. He made allowances for Alan
Warburton’s unsettled condition. “Do you know a lady—niece of the late
Major Carruthers, I believe—a Miss Daphne Carruthers?”
“I’ve met her—I can’t say that I know her.”
“Cast your memory back to that February evening—was this Daphne
Carruthers present at the Hunt Ball?”
“Yes, she was. I distinctly remember seeing her.”
“Good! Now tell me again. Did she meet or dance with the Crown Prince
of Clorania? To the best of your knowledge that is.”
“As far as I know, certainly not.”
“You never saw them together?”
“No, I saw the Crown Prince with Major Carruthers. And as I said,
Major Carruthers introduced Sheila to him, I’m positive of it. I’m
almost certain he came to the Ball in the company of Major
Carruthers.”
“Would you be prepared to assert that he didn’t come with a lady?”
“Most certainly I would!” Warburton was most emphatic on the point.
“Don’t you think it strange, then,” went on Anthony, “that, although
this distinguished guest came with Major Carruthers as you so
positively declare, he never made the acquaintance of Daphne
Carruthers—the Major’s own niece?”
“I don’t think about it. I don’t see what any of these questions has
got to do with my story.”
“Don’t you?” interjected Bannister, unable to conceal a note of
triumphant sarcasm; “don’t you? Would you be interested to know that
the Crown Prince whom you are accusing of the murder of Miss Delaney
was in Seabourne for the purpose of meeting Miss Carruthers?”
“Who says so?” blazed Warburton.
“I do,” rapped Bannister. “If you want to know, I left them there.
They were at the ‘Hotel Cassandra’—I saw them myself—Mr. Bathurst here
can support me—so you needn’t start arguing about it.”
Warburton went white as a sheet. But he quickly recovered himself.
“What’s all this talk about Daphne Carruthers—anyway? I don’t quite
get in on that. Why did the ‘Seabourne Chronicle’ of Saturday last say
that the police had every justification for their first attempt at
identification? Why was Daphne Carruthers supposed to have been
murdered?”
“And where did you see the ‘Seabourne Chronicle’?” thundered
Bannister.
“In Seabourne, of course,” stormed back Warburton. “Where do you
imagine I saw it—in the Westhampton Free Library, or that I found it
in a railway carriage?”
“Oh, then,” said the Inspector, with an ominous quietness, “so you’ve
been recuperating at Seabourne too. Seems mighty popular just at the
moment as a health-resort! What’s its special attraction?”
Warburton glared at him insolently. “What took me to Seabourne is no
concern of yours, Inspector. You bark up the right tree. And keep
barking up it till something comes down. Never mind about me.
Concentrate on little Alexis.”
“Hold on for a moment. Where did you stay in Seabourne? Give me the
address.”
“At a dirty little boarding-house, if you want to know—right at the
back of the town—kept by a Mrs. Leach—damned good name for her, too,”
he added reminiscently, “judged by the terms she charged in relation
to the quality of her _cuisine_.”
“Give me the exact address, if you please?” ordered Bannister, with
growing impatience.
“‘Sea View,’ it’s about three miles from the sea, to be exact—that’s
the reason for the name, no doubt. Froam Road.”
Bannister made an entry in his book. “Not a very great distance,
though, from Coolwater Avenue, Mr. Warburton,” he added with a wealth
of meaning.
“Too big a distance, by God,” raved Warburton. “If only I’d been
nearer that swine would never have finished his dirty work. I’d have
killed him with these hands!” He swung round on Bannister,
passionately. “You can’t be such a fool as to think I’d lay a hand on
Sheila Delaney of all people. I loved her far too much to hurt a hair
of her pretty head. I worshipped the very ground she walked on.” His
eyes caught Bannister’s and held them menacingly.
But the Inspector was rapid and ready to counter him adroitly. “You
loved her too much—eh? You loved her so much that you haven’t called
upon her for months! You’ve never gone near her. How do you explain
that, Mr. Galahad?”
Warburton’s reply was contemptuous and emphatic. “Haven’t called upon
her,” he repeated, the contempt increasing with each word uttered.
“When a girl doesn’t want a man—if he’s a sportsman he keeps away. I
don’t suppose your education has taught you that much. He doesn’t hang
round her with a whine, does he?”
Bannister’s temper, however, was badly frayed by now. “It depends,” he
blazed. “Your story may be all right, Mr. Warburton. On the other hand
it may not. I can assure you, it will have to be pretty strictly
investigated.”
“When you like and where you like, Inspector Bannister. Go through it
with a small tooth-comb. That cackle won’t put any wind up me.” He
flung out of the room leaving Bannister white and furious.
“Well, Mr. Bathurst,” he said at length, “and what do you make of that
charming gentleman? An extraordinary story, don’t you think?”
“He’s passing through a phase of deep emotion, Inspector,” responded
Anthony; “in point of fact, I’m intensely sorry for him. As to his
story—it’s more than extraordinary—to me it’s positively
conflicting—yet——”
“Yet what?”
“I think it may prove to be of inestimable help eventually. When I’ve
sorted things out a bit I think perhaps there may be a peep of silver
lining shining through the clouds.”
“Hope to goodness you’re right—although I can’t see it myself.” He
rattled the coins in his pocket.
“What’s your next step, Inspector?” queried Mr. Bathurst.
“Don’t quite know at this juncture—I’m torn between two or three
intentions. There are several things I want to do. On the whole, I
think I shall return to Seabourne. I’m confident the kernel of the
affair will be found down there. Why do you ask?”
“Well, I rather fancy I shall put in one or two more days up here.
It’s a county about which I know very little and I feel that I should
like to have a bit of a run round. I was always interested in new
places.”
“Hallo, Mr. Bathurst—the scent getting cold—eh?” Bannister’s tone was
genially provoking and contained a strong hint of raillery.
“I wouldn’t say that,” replied Anthony, showing easily discernible
signs of discomfiture. “I wouldn’t say that—a day or two’s rest
shouldn’t make a huge difference.”
“None at all—in all probability,” laughed Bannister. The telephone
rang and he crossed to it. The call was for him. Anthony listened
attentively. “What?” the Inspector yelled. “You don’t say so? Two
‘fives’ and a ‘ten,’ eh? By Jove! That complicates matters with a
vengeance. All right! I’ll be back to-morrow.” He replaced the
receiver and turned to Mr. Bathurst. “That message settles me. I’m
going back to Seabourne. Three of Miss Delaney’s stolen notes have
been traced.”
“To whom?” asked Mr. Bathurst quietly. “To a guest at the
‘Cassandra,’” said Bannister. “You’ve met him, too! A certain Captain
Willoughby!”